


It's All Hard-Wired to My Bones

by lumaxies



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bones AU, F/F, Lesbian Ben Hanscom, M/M, Nonbinary Stanley Uris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumaxies/pseuds/lumaxies
Summary: “Special Agent Richie Tozier, FBI. Do you believe in fate?”And Eddie smiled right back at him.“Doctor Eddie Kaspbrak, of the Jeffersonian Institution. Absolutely not.”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	It's All Hard-Wired to My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> yes this has been posted before yes the formatting sucked yes i fixed it and rewrote stuff no i did not steal this thank u in advance

Eddie Kaspbrak first met Richie Tozier when he interrupted his lecture on flesh removal. He walked in three minutes before the end, in his stupid monkey suit, asking questions about evidence in the skin. He tried to win him over with one of his stupid lines, smirking, and running his hand through his hair as he introduced himself.

“Special Agent Richie Tozier, FBI. Do you believe in fate?”

And Eddie smiled right back at him.

“Doctor Eddie Kaspbrak, of the Jeffersonian Institution. Absolutely not.”

. . . . .

They worked a case together, the murder of a young girl named Betty Ripsom, from Boston. It was Eddie’s first time working with bones from this century, and his first time working with the FBI. Tensions were high, and he had been going to extraordinary lengths to make sure he impressed this guy (why he was doing it was a mystery to him, but he’d seen it as good motivation- he’d worked with it). Richie started calling him Bones, and he remembers thinking that this walking tornado in a suit was incredibly fucking endearing. He’s also fairly certain that he hadn’t known what to do with that information.

He punched their lead suspect in the face when they interrogated him in the opera house, and Richie actually called him hot, at which Eddie turned bright red, and smiled at him. Twenty-first-century bones were becoming more and more appealing.

. . . . .

Richie took him out for drinks, and it was fun, and Eddie couldn’t stop smiling. He thought (well, he knew) that it probably had something to do with Richie. It was the best time he’d had in years, laughing and drinking with this FBI agent that he hadn’t even known three days ago. But it felt like forever when Richie locked eyes with him and grinned, before taking another drink.

“You’re fired.”

The words came as a shock to Eddie, and the smile wiped off his face.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Why?” Richie giggled, and signaled to the waiter, asking for two more drinks. “You punched a federal judge in the face!”

“No, you thought that was hot," Eddie shook his head slightly, confused, as the bartender handed them their drinks.

“Yeah, I did, it was very hot,” They clinked their glasses once more, and Richie smirked at him before taking his shot. “But you’re still fired.”

Things seemed to click into place in Eddie’s mind, and his overall feelings of betrayal and confusion and doubt were overshadowed by something else. He was acting mostly on impulse when he said it, foregoing any sort of filtering as the words left his mouth. He smiled at Richie and placed a hand over his.

“Well, if I'm fired…”

Richie looked up at him again, and their eyes met, Richie’s mouth stretching into a grin.

“I'll hail a cab.”

They left the bar and Eddie felt lighter than air; Richie’s hand clasped in his, as Richie flagged down a cab.

Richie turned to face him as the cab pulled to a stop, taking both of Eddie’s hands in his.

“Before we go, I, uh, I gotta tell you something," Richie looked him in the eye, and Eddie nodded, urging him to go on. “I had- have?- a drug problem. But, I’m...you know, I'm working on it.”

Eddie couldn’t say he was shocked at the secret, but he was surprised by how quickly Richie told him. Richie clearly kept it as quiet as he could, so the sudden bout of trust in Eddie made him almost giddy.

“Why did you need to tell me that?” He asked, as he took a step towards him and fought off a grin.

“I don't know, I just, uh, I feel like this is going somewhere," Eddie couldn't fight off the smile anymore, and he grinned up at Richie, acutely aware of the complete lack of space between the two of them.

“Why do you feel like this is going somewhere?”

“I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m going to kiss you.”

Eddie found himself surging forward, closing the distance between him and Richie. The kiss made him feel warm, a sort of safeness that he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before. He felt at home.

The cab driver honked, and Richie pulled away from him, frowning slightly at the interruption. Eddie smiled up at him before letting go of his hands and making his way to the cab.

“We’re not spending the night together.”

“Why not?” Richie stood in the same place he did before, and the smile on his face told Eddie that he thought he was joking.

“Tequila," He answered shortly, before getting in the back of the car, and giving the driver his address.

“Hang on!” Richie rushed to the cab, and waited at the window, as Eddie rolled it down. “You think I’m going to look at you in the morning and have regrets?”

Eddie looked fondly at Richie and smiled, before winking at him as he tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“That would never happen.”

. . . . .

Eddie walked into work the next morning with a massive headache, and he is pretty sure he bumped into about eight interns- he’d lost count after four.

“Oh, hey, Ed-”

“I’m not in the mood right now, Bev,” Eddie said to her, brushing past her, and rubbing his temple lightly. “Dr. Uris, I sincerely hope you have coffee ready for me.”

“Yes,” Stan handed Eddie a mug, as the group walked to the lab. “Um, also, Ben, Bev, and I have some updates for you on the case?”

And then Bev is off, talking about some kind of metal she found in the victim’s wounds, and Ben is talking to him about comparisons to cars, and Eddie's head spun.

“We got fired.”

“What?” Bev stopped cold and looks at him quizzically. “Is it because you slept with the FBI guy?”

“I did not sleep with the FBI guy, why would you assume something like that?”

“I can smell the tequila from over here," Ben glared at him from several feet away, her arms crossed.

Eddie glared right back, then turned to face Bev once again.

“I got us fired because I punched a federal judge in the schnoz.”

The three exchanged glances, as Eddie turned to face Stan.

“Dr. Uris, you, or an intern, should take all the evidence back to Agent Tozier at the FBI, so we can all get back to our normal jobs.”

“Sure thing.”

. . . . .

Eddie managed to avoid all things related to the Ripsom case for about two and a half hours, before Richie showed up in his office, a dopey grin on his face.

“You’re back, baby!”

Eddie glanced up from the skull he was examining, rolled his eyes, and set the skull down on the desk in front of him.

“What do you want?”

“Come on, don’t give me that! You’re rehired!”

Eddie tore his gaze away from the man in front of him and turned to a stack of paperwork that lay on his desk.

“But I’ve moved on.”

Richie moved to look more closely at the skull, a smirk gracing his features.

“Is that a monkey?”

“No,” Eddie sneered. “This is Ardipithecus Ramidus Kadabba, the earliest known-”

“Okay, well, Abracadabra can wait,” Richie interjected, shoving his hands in his pockets, and smiling at Eddie. “We got a warrant to search the judge’s car, so let’s go.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and turned back to the task at hand. He signed his name at the bottom of a form, closed a folder, and picked up another.

“What are you doing? Come on, get your coat, chop-chop!”

Eddie slammed the folder down on his desk, and glared at Richie, before grabbing his coat off the rack by the door, and storming past him. 

. . . . .

They arrived at the FBI's go-to car investigation lot to endless chatter from crime scene investigators. The agents and other workers buzzed about, machines whirring as they searched various vehicles. Eddie headed straight towards the judge’s car, while Richie hung back with the head of the CSI unit, so he could get caught up with what they had done so far.

He stood off to the side, his arms crossed, and his stance defensive, as he observed the crew’s work intensely.

“Is something wrong?” Agent Tozier asked quietly, coming to stand beside him, as he shoved a pen in the pocket of his jacket.

“I find that I am annoyed with you,” Eddie answered cooly, avoiding eye contact.

“Why? Because I fired you and then rehired you?” Richie asked, surprised. “It’s the federal government.”

“No,” Eddie snapped. “Because you got me drunk to fire me, and then have sex with me!”

“Whoa!” Richie protested. “I got myself drunk to fire you, and you decided to hit on me, and then not have sex with me, which I accepted, like a gentleman," Eddie watched Richie narrow his eyes, and smile smugly from the corner of his eye. “Are you regretting that decision?”

“No, I’m not,” Eddie said shortly. “It was a very good decision, I stand by it.”

“What’s going on, Bones?” Richie urged.

“Do not call me Bones!”

“Sorry to interrupt,” One of the techs interjected, looking at Richie apologetically and shrugging. “This car has been cleaned, sanded, and repainted; the rug is new.”

“Alright, so nothing?” Richie crossed his arms, defeated.

“Nothing," the tech confirmed.

“Can I have my car back?” The judge piped up from where he stood in the entryway, having just arrived with his lawyer.

“I see no reason why not," His lawyer assured him. “You’ve done nothing but cooperate at every stage of this investigation.”

Richie sighed in surrender, and Eddie found himself suddenly very angry. “What, that’s it?”

“Well, we don’t have anything!” Richie stressed.

Eddie shook his head. “My people should look at it.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re smarter than you?” He observed, making his way towards the car, the tech and Agent Tozier following closely.

“I beg your pardon?” Richie asks, offended, and Eddie stops suddenly to turn back at him and smirk.

“Oh, please, do you really think the best and brightest go into law enforcement?” he asked, cocking his head mockingly, before turning back around and taking the few steps to the trunk of the car. “No, the best and brightest go to the Jeffersonian!”

“Oh, really?” Richie quipped. “Because, you know, the one I met couldn’t pick his nose without instruction.” 

"Their," Eddie said shortly, rolling his eyes and turning back to the car. He examined it with scrutiny, ignoring the bewildered man behind him. "If you're going to imply that my colleague is mentally insufficient, at least use their correct pronouns, please." Eddie turned back to the CSI tech.

“The locking mechanism should be removed.”

“Okay, you know what, excuse me," Richie pulled Eddie aside by the arm and narrowed his eyes at him. “You really need to learn how to speak to human beings.”

“I speak six languages, two of which you’ve never heard of.” Eddie sneered.

“You know what, you’re a cold fish," Richie conceded.

“You’re a superstitious moron!”

“Get a soul," Richie snapped, and Eddie looked at him with fire in his eyes.

“Get a brain!”

“Agent Tozier?” The tech interrupted them again, and their heads snapped towards him.

“What?” They question.

“I’m Agent Tozier,” Richie said definitively, glaring at Eddie before turning back to the tech. “What?” The tech held out his hand dumbly, a small piece of something lying in the middle of his palm. “What is that?”

“I have no idea," The tech shrugged, and Eddie groaned, grabbing the tech’s hand to hold it steady, so he could examine the object more closely.

“It’s a stapes. Human," He concluded after a few seconds. “It’s a bone from the inner ear.”

“Betty Ripsom’s?” Richie said hopefully, bouncing his toes.

“I can’t tell that from looking at it, Agent Tozier, I would need to run tests," Eddie scoffed. “Anyone who took high school science should know that.”

“Well, anyone with a high school education would figure ‘Hey, who else’s could it be?’” Richie challenged. Eddie just rolled his eyes, again, before pulling off his gloves and making his way to the exit.

“Send this to the Jeffersonian, we’ll check it for DNA," He ordered before walking out, the whirring and chatter of the lot falling quieter as he walked.

. . . . .

Agent Tozier requested that Eddie be there when they question the judge, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, as long as required contact would be kept minimal. He sat in a corner of the interrogation room with Adrian Mellon, the federal prosecutor on the case, and stayed silent while Richie questioned the suspect.

The second the judge is in the interrogation room, he begins to crack. He slips up on his story, and the DNA evidence, along with new testimony from a valet at the opera house was too much to release him, but Mellon assured him that the charges wouldn’t stick unless they could find a motive.

Eddie studied the judge critically during the interview, taking careful note of how often- and how gingerly- he touched his nose.

“He’s had his septum replaced," He murmured to Mellon, about ten minutes into the interrogation. “Frequent drug use could explain the need for surgery.” The lawyer stared at him for a few seconds, awestruck, before getting up to tell Agent Tozier. 

The judge confessed within seconds.

. . . . .

Eddie, however, was still worried there wasn’t enough evidence, a fact that he- admittedly, very inappropriately- brought up in the briefing with the victim’s mother. Eddie could see that Agent Tozier was getting agitated, but he couldn’t stop. He was concerned, and he wanted to make sure that all their metaphorical ducks were in a row.

Richie grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the briefing room after a few minutes, and all Eddie could see was red- there was anger, but also a feeling of loss, and rejection, and he had never been so mad in his whole life. He just snapped.

He slapped Richie across the face, hard, and jerked his arm away from him. “You are a bully," he spat at Richie, who was crouched in front of him, holding his cheek. “You grab my arm, just like the judge. You use your badge and your gun to intimidate people-”

“Oh, kind of like how you use your brain to make the people around you feel stupid?”

“Well, you are a stupid man!” Eddie screamed tearfully. “I hate you.”

“Oh, you hate me? What are we, twelve? I’m not your dad!”

Eddie shrank back at this, shaking his head, as he grabbed his coat and began to storm towards the exit. “I will never work with you again.”

“Who asked you?” Richie shouted after him.

That’s the last time they see each other for another year.

. . . . .

Eddie is doing just fine for himself after that. He continues his work at the Jeffersonian, forming a sort of team with Ben, Bev, and Stan. They've bonded over the Ripsom case, and sending Bev or Ben away after that seems foolish. They work well together, and the work goes much faster with all of them pitching in than it did with just him and Stan. Eddie travels, while Stan works on their next doctorate, Bev does whatever she does with her bugs and minerals, and Ben opens several exhibits in the Jeffersonian with the sketches and recreations she creates based on their digs.

Eddie is in South America when he gets the call. His trip, funded by the Jeffersonian so he can examine the bodies from what seems to be a massacre from years ago, is being cut short. They’ve just unearthed an unidentified container in some woods near Maine, with two bodies inside, and they need him home immediately.

The Gravedigger, they say, is making their comeback.

. . . . .

The Gravedigger has haunted the east coast for years and is in some ways more like an urban legend than an actual serial killer. They’ve been around forever, since before Eddie was even born, and they only kill every few years.

The Gravedigger isn’t technically a serial killer, either, but a serial kidnapper with a hunger for money. Victims have been saved when the ransom requested is paid, but there have been just as many deaths as there have been rescues.

The most famous victim was Georgie Denbrough, a little six-year-old from a small town called Derry, in Maine. His parents didn’t pick up The Gravedigger’s call, and frankly, they seemed a little too preoccupied to care much, but Georgie's older brother, Bill, has made a hell of a ruckus. He's appeared on every news show from “Derry Today” to “Wake Up, Washington!”, which Eddie only knows because Stan has recordings of every television appearance his partner (and co-writer of his novel) has made for the last five years (“The guy is hot, Doctor Kaspbrak, what else is there to say?”). He’s written a book about his experiences with The Gravedigger, and now, at 28 (the same age as them, Stan notes), has a degree in psychology, and works closely with the FBI agent in charge of The Gravedigger case.

Eddie is confident that if anyone is going to catch this asshole, it’s going to be him and his team. So, he’s on the next flight out, landing in Maine in twelve hours.

. . . . .

“We haven’t moved anything, Doctor Kaspbrak,” The intern in front of him reports. He’s pretty sure her name is Amy, or Sandy, or something, but he doesn’t really care enough to try to remember. “It’s exactly the way it was when the kids found it. Not even the FBI has been here yet.”

“Thank you, Miss Clark," He snaps on a pair of disposable gloves and follows her the rest of the way to the uncovered container.

“Not a problem, Doctor Kaspbrak," She grins. “If you need anything, I'd love to help! The FBI will be here shortly, as well.”

“Yes, I'll let you know," He murmurs, brushing past her. He steps up to the object, which he identifies as a beer vat, large and silver, when a voice interrupts him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The voice exclaims, and Eddie almost starts screaming on the spot. “Special Agent Richie Tozier, FBI,” He says, flashing his badge at the intern. “What’s the story here?”

“Hell no,” Eddie says firmly, turning and staring at Agent Tozier in disbelief. Richie turns to him, and his eyes widen with recognition.

“Bones!” he exclaims.

“Don’t call me Bones," Eddie snaps. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I'm working with you on this case. This is my case.”

“Your case?” Agent Tozier snorts. “Baby, this has been my case since I stepped foot in the field office. I was the one who uncovered Georgie Denbrough when I was only twelve. My uncle was the one who linked his case to the other disappearances, and I was the one who was there when Bill got the news that his brother was the victim of a serial killer. This will be your case when hell freezes over.”

There’s a slight stare down until the intern awkwardly interrupts. “Um, three boys who were out here dirt biking saw something shiny poking out of the ground and started screaming about aliens. Forest ranger called the police.”

Eddie approaches the vat again, rubbing at the dirt on the window, so he can get a clearer view.

“You want to look?” He calls to Agent Tozier. Richie stepped up next to him and peeked through the window.

“Those what I think they are?” He asks defeatedly.

“If you think that they’re two adolescent human males, then yes.” Eddie answers shortly, eyes transfixed on the skeletons in tracksuits in the air-sealed orb before him.

“How long?” Richie asks, pulling away from the window to rub at his temples.

“Based on the amount of dehydrated tissue, the tank was sealed. They’ve probably been here for years.” He glances over at the FBI agent crouching beside him. “Headache?”

“I just…” Richie looks genuinely mournful, and Eddie feels sort of bad for him. “Two kids. I liked it a lot better when they were aliens.”

. . . . .

The transport team from the Jeffersonian loads the bodies and the vat into their trucks, and Eddie parts ways with them, planning to meet them at the Jeffersonian.

“Hey, Bones!” A voice calls out from behind him, and Eddie rolls his eyes, continuing the walk back to his car. “Eds! Eddie!”

He whirls around. “What do you want, Agent Tozier?”

“To talk to you, obviously!”

“What could you possibly have to say to me?” Eddie crosses his arms and looks at Richie with his eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry?” Richie says, confused that Eddie would even ask. “Look, the last time we worked together, I was an ass. But, I need you.”

“I don’t share your sentiment,” Eddie says bluntly, continuing towards his car. “In fact, I find you to be rather irritating.”

“Excuse me?” Richie seems appalled. “At least I'm not the one throwing around the fact that I have a doctorate all the time!”

“Actually, I have three!” Eddie corrects hastily, fishing his keys out of his messenger bag, and unlocking his door.

“Yeah, well I have a gun and a badge, so," Richie catches up with him and holds his car door closed, looking at Eddie apologetically. “What do I have to do to get you to cooperate and work this case with me?”

Eddie thinks for a moment and quirks an eyebrow at Richie. “I want full access.”

“Done,” He agrees.

“Not just science stuff!” Eddie specifies, and Richie looks at him exasperatedly.

“I got it, we’re Scully and Mulder. You want me on my knees or something?”

“At least take me to dinner first, Agent Tozier!” Eddie jokes, making Richie smile at him. “You need a ride?”

“A ride would be good, yeah.”

. . . . .

“One set of remains shows trauma to the legs,” Stan catches Eddie up when he arrives at the Jeffersonian, a sense of familiarity washing over him. “He’s got compound fractures and his pelvis is broken in three places. The others were virtually untouched.”

“Cause of death?” Eddie inquires as he shrugs on his lab coat and approaches the bodies.

“The amount of blood suggests at least one of them bled out, probably the one with the injuries," Eddie nods and makes a note on his clipboard. And, uh, Eddie,” Stan‘s voice is solemn, and their face is sad, which alarms Eddie. “I’ve also noticed a constellation of identical non-metric variants.”

Eddie sighs deeply and nods. “They were twins.”

“Ryan and Matthew Criss,” Richie confirms from his place off to the side. “Kidnapped on October 31st in 2001.”

. . . . .

“DNA testing confirmed that the bodies in the beer vat were Ryan and Matthew Criss," Eddie slides the test papers across the table and looks over to Richie, who has his eyes fixed on the man across the table.

“Oh, God," The man mutters, placing his head in his hands.

“It’s better than never knowing, Don," A woman that Eddie assumes is another agent, sits at his side, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

“Agent Hagarty,” Eddie is trying incredibly hard this time to be delicate, but he isn’t a person that deals super well with emotional breakdowns- they make him extremely anxious, and he can’t be anxious when he’s trying to solve a double homicide. “You were assigned to the Criss kidnapping?”

“Uh, Mr. Hagarty," Don corrects. “I retired from the FBI after the Criss case. when I’m sober, I do general contracting," Eddie nods. “Former Assistant United States General Attorney Audra Phillips worked with me on the case as well.”

“The boys were snatched after a drinking party," the woman at don’s side fills in.

“Was the ransom paid?” Eddie asks, and Richie kicks him underneath the table, shooting him a look.

Don fiddles with his hands guiltily. “As the duly sworn representative of the FBI,” he swallows. “I advised Mr. Criss not to pay the ransom. Unfortunately, the Crisses listened to me and not the K and R guy, and, uh,” Tears fill Don’s eyes. “Now their sons are dead.”

“K and R?” Eddie looks at Richie, who nods.

“Kidnap and Ransom experts," He explains, and Eddie affirms his understanding.

“The Criss boys were The Gravedigger’s fifth and sixth victims," Audra elaborated, and Eddie's eyes widened.

“Fifth and sixth of the twelve we know of," Don corrected. “Altogether, four paid the ransom and lived.”

“And the others that didn’t?”

“Never found them,” Audra says sadly.

“That’s why they call him The Gravedigger,” Don says dazedly. “He takes people and he buries them. You pay the ransom and he tells you how to dig them up. You don’t, and you never see them again. You won’t catch him.”

“All due respect, Mr. Hagarty, we have the beer vat and the human remains," Richie boasts proudly.

“What are two dead bodies going to tell you that four live victims couldn’t?” Audra sneers, and Richie gives her a cool stare.

“Doctor Kaspbrak is pretty good at, uh, making dead people tell him things," Richie's hand clamps down on his shoulder, and they exchange warm smiles. Richie winks at him.

“Look,” Don rolls his eyes. “Take my advice. Talk to the K and R guys.”

“Kidnap and Ransom experts, Bill Denbrough and Mike Hanlon. Mike is a former FBI psychologist, and Bill is a journalist. They've been on this case almost their whole lives. They literally wrote the book on The Gravedigger," Audra hands Eddie a book and he smiles widely, laughing a little.

“Stan will be very happy to hear about this.”

. . . . .

“I became a kidnap and ransom specialist after I realized that the bureau’s policy on non-payment to kidnappers is antiquated and dangerous," Bill takes a seat across from Eddie and grins at him, while Richie narrows his eyes and clears his throat.

“And you’ve dealt with The Gravedigger how many times?"

The man sitting beside Bill raises an eyebrow in challenge. “In total? Five. Not counting his brother.”

“Oh, Mike, I don’t remember asking for your input!”

“Mike used to be a psychologist," Bill clarifies for Eddie needlessly. “He helped me write the book on The Gravedigger. Next to me, he’s the ranking expert on that son of a bitch.”

“Also, you know, me," Richie snarks. “Because I've technically been on this case longer than both of you.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Agent Tozier," Mike jokes, and Richie gives him a sharp glare. Seriously, if looks could kill, this man would be six feet under. 

Bill clears his throat awkwardly and sets his attention to Eddie. “The Gravedigger is totally consistent. No one ever sees the victim taken. The ransom demand is made using a digitally altered voice. A time limit is given. There’s never a second call. As soon as the ransom is paid to a numbered, untraceable account in the Caribbean, or the Virgin Islands, or something of the sort, the GPS coordinates are provided, leading to the victim.”

“And none of the surviving victims remembers anything before being taken?” Eddie asks skeptically.

“Nothing,” Mike confirms, and Richie slumps down in his chair. “Burn marks on the back of the neck suggest the use of a stun gun or cattle prod.”

“That’ll scramble your brains pretty good,” Bill adds. “Also, when you try to trace whatever container the boys were found in, you’ll reach a dead end. He gets everything from landfills or cash auctions.

“No last chance to pay up,” Richie mutters.

“Never," Bill agrees.

“Most kidnappers are caught because they start negotiating the ransom,” Mike says thoughtfully. “The Gravedigger simply won’t play.”

“The Gravedigger simply won’t play!” Richie mocks, and Eddie looks at him sharply. Richie, however, has reached his limit with Bill and mike. “Listen, Billy Boy, Mikey Mike and the Funky Bunch: I’m really not looking to help you write another book, ya know. ‘Capturing The Gravedigger!’ or, whatever, is not happening. Over my dead body.”

“Agent Tozier," Bill sighs at his childhood friend, who looks at him angrily, his cheeks flushed, and his fists clenched. “I have seen what this guy does to families. Up close. Dislike me as much as you want but I'm still going to help you. I want this bastard caught.”

Bill grabs his coat and drapes it over his shoulder, exiting the room with a small smile in Eddie's direction, Mike close behind him.

Eddie looks at Richie curiously, who is now breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down. 

“You were kinda mean to them,” Eddie says matter-of-factly, and Richie looks at him irritatedly.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

. . . . .

“Stanley?” Eddie calls across the lab platform, summoning his associate. “Did you catalog this anomaly between C1 and C2 on Matthew?”

“Yes,” Stan walks over to meet Eddie, taking their place behind the computer, and pulling up the x-rays they had taken earlier. “If you increase magnification on the atlantoaxial joint, you’ll see calcining on the articular process.”

Eddie is startled. “Bone burn.”

“Yes,” Stan sighs deeply, rubbing at their eye. “Over 300 degrees.”

“Stun gun," Eddie muses. “Does the same mark appear on Ryan?”

Stan makes quick work of pulling up Ryan's x-rays, shaking their head firmly. “Nope.”

“Okay,” Eddie looks at the x-rays for a moment, seemingly examining them, his head cocked, his eyebrows furrowed. “Get the FBI to send you photos and medical exam results of The Gravedigger’s victims. See if he uses the same stun gun every time.”

Stan nods, exiting quickly, nearly crashing into Bev on their way out.

“Aluminum!” She announces as she rushes in the door, and up the platform steps to the microscope nearest Eddie.

“Aluminum?” Eddie echoes lost in Bev's personal tornado.

“The Brits say 'alyouminium' but it sounds, well, British.” Bev steps back from the microscope, allowing Eddie to step up and take a look at the piece of cloth she’d cut from one of the tracksuits. “Manganese alloy. Strained-hardened and stabilized. Traces on both sets of clothing,"

“From the vat?” Eddie looks up at her, and she grins widely, shaking her head excitedly.

“Nope. The inside of the vat is pure copper," Eddie hums and leans down to examine the sample again, Bev continuing to explain her findings from beside him. “Both boys’ clothing was stained with a sooty residue made up of lead and carbon, benzene and aldehydes.”

Eddie startles and looks up at her sharply. “Engine exhaust?”

“yeah," Bev nods, knowingly. “particulates from lots of engines. both gasoline and diesel.”

“a parking lot," Eddie sighs. “of course.” 

Bev nods. “underground, probably. that’s gotta be where the digger grabs his victims.”

“compare your findings with the results found on the clothing of the surviving victims. see if they share anything in common," Eddie pulls away from the microscope, checks his watch, and curses under his breath. he bounds down the platform steps, and heads toward his office, shouting back to Bev as he goes. “and measure oxygen volume in the vat. find out how long the twins survived.”

“I’ll get right on it,” she calls back.

. . . . .

"Mr. Criss,” Mike starts the meeting from in between Bill and Eddie, addressing the guest in the room. “I'd like to start by expressing the justice department’s sincere condolences for the death of your sons, Matthew and Ryan.”

“If I'd ignored the justice department and listened to Mr. Denbrough, here - paid the two million - my boys would still be alive today.” Mr. Criss snarls and Eddie narrows his eyes at him cautiously.

“Sir, I understand your feelings towards the FBI-” agent Tozier begins, but Mr. Criss cuts him off sharply.

“I doubt that.”

“Victor, Agent Tozier here is investigating your sons’ murder," Bill interjects, making eye contact with Mr. Criss. “You know my problem with the FBI's approach to kidnapping, but when it comes to finding killers, you want these people on your side.”

Mr. Criss nods, and clears his throat, looking to Agent Tozier apprehensively. “Ryan and Mattie were spoiled. I know. they uh, partied, they chased girls, they, um…”

Eddie’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he checked it casually, Mr. Criss's words fading out as he read the message from Bev.

FROM: BEVERLY MARSH  
there’s no way those kids had 24 hours of air. about 12 max.

“God, there’s no way that they deserved suffocation. is it - painful?” Eddie looked up, catching Mr. Criss's last few words, as he slid his phone towards Richie.

“Like falling asleep," Eddie assures him, swallowing. He looks quickly to Richie, who nods. “Mr. Criss, The Gravedigger lied to you and the FBI.”

Bill scoffs. “That’s unlikely. He doesn’t play games.”

Eddie shoots him a glare, then continues. “Mr. Criss, is there any way you could have put together the ransom in twelve hours?”

Mr. Criss hesitates. “No way in the world.”

“Which is exactly why The G-Gravedigger gave him t-twenty-four hours," Bill answered, confidence slipping, and a stutter peeking through.

Richie shakes his head, almost victoriously. “His sons only had enough air for twelve hours.”

Victor falls back in his seat. “Oh, my God…”

Richie looks gently towards him, his eyes full of sympathy. “Even if you had ignored the FBI and listened to Mr. Denbrough, you still wouldn’t have been able to save your sons.”

“You’re b-b-backstopping for the b-b-bureau!” Bill exclaims, standing up from his seat suddenly, startling Mr. Criss.

“There were two of them in that vat. They used up their oxygen twice as fast," Eddie explains calmly, his eyes locked on Mr. Criss, paying no mind to Bill, who is now whispering fiercely to Mike. “The Gravedigger miscalculated.”

“N-n-no, he d-doesn’t do that!” 

Eddie shrugs, looking lazily over to Bill. “Then it was never his intention that these boys survive.”

“He just didn’t care, Mr. Criss,” Richie says softly.

“So my decision to listen to the FBI– to not pay the ransom…”

“If you’d paid the ransom, your sons would still have been dead by the time you got to them,” Eddie confirms, looking hesitantly at Agent Tozier.

“There is nothing you could have done, Mr. Criss," Richie gives the man a sad smile, and places his hand casually on top of Eddie’s. “You are in no way responsible for the death of your sons.”

. . . . . 

Back at the Jeffersonian, later that day, Eddie is examining the several containers that have taken over his lab. Each one is different from the last, varying from metal waste bins to plastic storage containers.

“Each of these contained one of The Gravedigger’s victims," Mike says stiffly, clearly bothered by how they were shown up earlier in the day. Bill stood beside Stan’s desk, sulking, and Eddie shifted uncomfortably at their unprofessional behavior.

“Cozy," Richie murmurs, staring intently at large metal freezer.

“We also provided your people with the clothes each victim was wearing.”

“Regarding the clothing,” Beverly enters, breathless. “Every one of them shows traces of aluminum and sooty residue.”

Eddie turns to Mike, clarifying. “We know each victim was taken from an underground garage, beyond the reach of security cameras.”

“The typical kidnap for ransom profile is middle-aged, in a job that’s beneath him-” Bill speaks up, trying to show off his knowledge, but he’s cut off.

“Smart guy who’s an underachiever, and someone who enjoys control over somebody else’s life," Richie nods, waving his hand dismissively. “There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?” Bill snarks.

“There’s nothing typical about this guy," Richie looks up, an ominous look in his eye. “Don’t expect him to fit the profile.”

Ben enters then, thrusting an iPad into Eddie’s waiting hands. “okay. the dimensions of the vat - six feet wide by eight feet tall - make it impossible for Mattie Criss to have fractured his brother’s pelvis.”

A simulation plays, and Richie leans over Eddie’s shoulder to look. “Even if Matthew knocked Ryan down and – you know - stomped on him?”

“No, Stan and I agree," Eddie shakes his head, handing the tablet to stan, so he and Bill could watch. “The fracture was a result of one, hard blow. a break like that would require a lot more force then Matthew could have generated.”

“Alright, so you’re saying that Ryan was injured before he went into that vat?”

“Yes," Eddie confirms. “But the amount of blood on the floor can’t be explained by his injuries alone.”

“It was a mistake," Richie whispers under his breath, and Eddie looks at him curiously.

“What was?”

“He intended to take one boy but he ended up with two," Richie looks up at him, the excitement of having found an answer evident on his face.

Eddie nods, realization dawning. “That’s why they died twelve hours ahead of schedule.”

“If he intended to take two boys, he would have put them in a container twice as big," Richie's eyes are wide and bright, the turning wheels in his head obvious to those around him. “Alright, The Gravedigger, he messed up. He snuck up on Matthew – knocked him unconscious, whatever, and uh, Ryan was there – he shows up – and he fought the guy.”

Eddie looks at the x-rays on the computer screen again, shaking his head slowly. “No, Rich. Not fight.”

“The leg damage," Ben comes up behind him, tapping away on her iPad. “The fractured pelvis…”

“These injuries are classic human versus car.” Eddie breathes.

Richie adjusts his glasses on his face and blinks. “Ryan interrupts the kidnapping of his brother…”

“And The Gravedigger runs him down," Eddie finishes. “It was a mistake.”

. . . . . 

Stan huffed, tossing the taser in their hand to the side, looking dejectedly at Mike. “Commercial stun gun. Six hundred twenty-five thousand volts. Still not enough.

“Well, it sounds like a lot of volts," Mike offers, slightly confused.

“Actually, it’s the amperage that does the real damage," Stan looks absolutely defeated, and dead tired, but Mike can tell that they won’t be leaving any time soon. This case was taking over the team’s life, much as it had his, sixteen years ago. “Anyway, I’ve checked every commercial stun gun I can find and none of them generate the right amount of power to make those distinctive marks on the bone.

“What about a cattle prod?”

Stan shakes their head. “Stun guns generate a lot more power than cattle prods.”

“If you haven’t figured out the stun gun,” Bev enters loudly, changed out of her work uniform, a signature smirk on her face. “Then I am this week’s King of the Lab, 'cause I found something huge!”

Mike grins, looking immediately to Stan. “You guys compete– to be King of the Lab?

“No!” Stan’s defensive stance is immediate, and they shoot a quick glare at Bev over their shoulder.

“Oh, hey, Mike! I didn’t know that you were…” She looks around awkwardly for a second, adjusts her messenger bag, then slowly backs up towards the door. “This is awkward. I'm gonna go catch Eddie, then bolt for the night.”

“He just left," Stan tells her stiffly, and the next thing they hear is the careful creak of the door opening and closing.

“Hey," Mike’s voice is sickly sweet, as he places his hands on Stan’s biceps. Stan turns towards him reluctantly, biting back a smile. “Could you stop being so weird?” Mike’s tone is teasing, and Stan sticks their tongue out at him as he finishes what he’s saying, almost impossible to understand over his laughter. “Please? It’s making me very uncomfortable.”

. . . . .

Eddie whistles to himself, swinging his car keys around his finger, as he loads up his trunk for the night. He’s going over his mental checklist when he’s grabbed from behind, his mouth covered, a sharp object pressed into his neck. He’s vaguely aware of someone yelling his name, before he’s falling backward into someone’s arms, and being shoved into the backseat of his car.

“Doctor Kaspbrak?” The screams seem far away, but he clings to them desperately, fighting fiercely to stay awake. “Eddie!”

He feels the car go over a bump, he’s tossed in the air, and then he’s out, the darkness taking over him.

. . . . .

“Oh, what the fuck?” Eddie’s head is pounding, and his neck stings. He’s in his car, he realizes, and it’s completely dark, the radio playing some weird ballad, tuned to a station he’s never heard of. His phone is on the ground, and a quick check tells him that the battery is dead, with his car charger nowhere in sight. He flicks on the light above his seat and tries the door, but it won’t budge.

“Come on,” He mumbles and pushes all of his weight against it. Nothing. He rolls down the window and the dirt and rocks that fall into his lap before he can roll it back up tell him everything he needs to know. He’s in his car, underground, with only a few hours to live.

A soft groan from behind him alerts him to the even bigger problem. He whirls around and sees a slumped over body, barely conscious in the back.

“Shit,” Eddie scrambles into the backseat, and leans over the person, trying to figure out how to jostle them. “Bev? Bev, are you alright? Can you talk?” There’s a groan in response, and it’s then that Eddie notices the blood covering her legs. “Oh, God, Bev, your legs! What happened to your legs?”

She turns her head slightly and clears her throat. “Where are we?” She whispers, grabbing onto Eddie’s arm.

“We’re buried alive," He tells her solemnly. “He got us.”

“Who?”

“The Gravedigger,"

. . . . .

“Richie, we need to find some way to move past this.”

“Not interested.”

“Come on!” Bill whines. “We’re adults now. Can’t we just move on?” Richie's phone rings and Mike glares at him sharply. 

“Let it go to voicemail," Richie sighs, and takes his hand off of his phone, turning his attention back to Bill.

“It was tenth grade, Richie, and I’ve already apologized!”

“Then why does the memory of you humiliating me in front of our whole school still keep me up at night, William?”

“Because what I did was really shitty?” Bill reaches a hand across the table, but Richie jerks away from him. “I can’t erase the past.”

Richie pulls his phone out and enters his voicemail, ready to end the conversation with Bill. “No, you can’t, and that’s the point. I don’t know why you thought bringing your bestie here to mediate was going to change my opinion on that.”

“Because I know both of you equally well, Richie. Bill thought it would be best to have a neutral party here during the conversation, but if you’re uncomfortable…” Mike finally takes note of the horror on Richie's face, and how pale he’s gotten in the last minute. “What? What’s wrong?”

Richie turns on speakerphone, and places his phone in the middle of the table, a distorted voice echoing through the almost empty diner. 

“Edward Kaspbrak and Beverly Marsh have been buried alive. Wire transfer eight million dollars to the following Grand Cayman account or they will suffocate to death.”

. . . . .

”Upon receipt of the wire transfer, I will provide you with Edward and Beverly’s GPS coordinates. This will be my last communication.”

“It will be his last communication too. He’s never varied," Bill is stoic, the words coming only robotically. beside him, Stan is shaking, but otherwise showing no emotion, and Ben is crying silently, shoulders heaving, gulping breaths escaping her every few seconds.

“You learned from the Criss boys. He’s got two of them; he cut the deadline in half," Mike adds.

“Why is The Gravedigger demanding so much money? It doesn’t make any sense," Ben wails, and Stan pats her on the shoulder comfortingly.

“Well, he’s always been reasonable at knowing how much people can raise within the time limit," Mike shrugs, rubbing at his temples, trying to push away the beginnings of a headache.

“Has Dr. Kaspbrak made that much money from his books?” Bill turns to Richie, who barely acknowledges him.

“It’s not from his books,” Richie says absently, pacing back and forth, and chewing his thumbnail anxiously. “His dad was the owner of this thing called the Cantilever Group, and he’s the sole heir.”

“What’s that?” Bill turns to Mike, who has looked up sharply, staring at Richie with wide eyes. 

“Just the third-largest privately owned corporation in the country…” He whispers, awed.

“Make sense now, Bill?”

. . . . .

“I was on my way to karate class, so we have lots of bottled water," Eddie feels Bev’s forehead and hands her a bottle.

“What happened?” she croaks. “Where are we?”

He shrugs helplessly. “The last thing I remember is being at the lab.”

“I'm really confused,” Bev’s eyes are filling up with tears, and Eddie can tell she’s feeling really overwhelmed. “What happened to my legs? Where are we?

“We’re underground,” He repeats, smoothing down her hair. “Buried. I have a burn," He says, leaning down so Bev can see the back of his neck. Her fingers ghost over his irritated skin and he winces, causing her to jerk away.

“Stan was trying to figure out what kind of stun gun…”

“It has to be The Gravedigger. I think he ran you down with his car, and then pumped you full of drugs to ruin your short term memory – same as Ryan Criss.”

“How long have we been down here?” Bev asks, clearly getting more panicked. She leans forward in her seat, then grimaces, settling back just as quickly.

Eddie checks his watch. “It would be two hours, I think?”

“Okay, so this vehicle is si-sixty sixty cubic feet of air, uh, it’s just twenty percent oxygen, two people…” She goes quiet for a moment, before looking up at him frantically. “My brain is not working!”

“The Gravedigger is very consistent,” Eddie is trying to remain rational, trying to keep his breathing regular, and his face stoic, if not for his own sanity, then for Bev’s. “If we started with twelve hours of air, we’ll be unconscious in ten. after that, if no one pays the ransom…”

“We’re dead.”

. . . . .

“How are we gonna get our hands on eight million dollars?”

The team is now explaining the situation to the United States General Attorney, Adrian Mellon, while a countdown runs on a large screen in the background, telling them that Eddie and Bev are now down to ten hours, forty-three minutes, and four seconds of air.

“Eddie is rich," Stan says bluntly, continuing to examine the bones on the table in front of them.

“He is?”

“Rich squared, to the power of ten, times four is how he describes it.”

Adrian looks bewildered, even more so when Ben whistles to get his attention. 

“You’re gonna pay the ransom, right?” She asks accusingly, narrowing her eyes. Adrian looks to Richie, who sighs, and steps in.

“Yes. FBI standard ops, they won’t work. The Gravedigger operates outside statistics.”

“Agent Tozier, I advise against that," Adrian's voice is cool. “They’ll fire you in a second.”

”Oh, bitching! one less reason to wear a suit!”

Adrian rolls his eyes.

“How did The Gravedigger catch Eddie and Bev together?” Bill asks from the computer, where he sits beside ben, tapping away at the keys.

“Eddie was on his way to karate," Richie says, earning a strange look from Ben and Stan. “What? it’s a Thursday, he has karate every Tuesday and Thursday from seven to nine.”

“And Bev said she found something huge," Stan’s head jerks up, and over to Richie. “She said she was going to try to catch Doctor Kaspbrak.”

“Then why are we still standing around here?” Richie shouts. “To the parking lot, squints!”

. . . . .

“We have water, towels, my mini kit, ibuprofen, two cell phones with no battery, a digital camera with a backup battery, and, uh, a handful of pens.”

“That one’s actually a laser pointer," Bev plucks the pen from his hand, and twirls it in her fingers.”

”Oh, and a copy of my novel,"

“Great,” Bev laments. “We can read it to each other if we get bored.”

Eddie mock glares at her, but his expression softens when he sees her try to shift, pain contorting her features.

“You okay?”

“There’s something wrong,” She hisses. “My leg.”

“Here, here," He opens the ibuprofen bottle and pours out a few pills, placing them in Bev’s hand, along with an open bottle of water. “I'm worried you have compartment syndrome.”

“Is that terminal?” Bev asks, meeting Eddie’s gaze. “I mean, within the next few hours?”

“No…” Eddie trails off.

“But?”

“It’s gonna get painful.”

“More painful than now?” Bev shrieks and Eddie looks at her pitifully.

“Yeah," he answers sadly. “‘Slip into shock and die’ painful.”

Bev shrugs and laughs to herself, clearly distraught. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that!”

Eddie chews his thumbnail and looks at her sympathetically. “Actually, there is.”

Bev groans. “Oh, I'm not gonna like this, am I?”

. . . . .

EIGHT HOURS  
TWENTY-TWO MINUTES  
FOURTEEN SECONDS

“I figured out how Ryan Criss died!” Stan announces loudly, walking briskly into the lab, and straight over to a computer.

“Let’s hear it," Richie crosses his arms and looks pointedly at them, causing Stan to shift awkwardly.

“He killed himself," Stan points to a slight chip in bone in the x-rays. “He punctured his own carotid artery, which explains the amount of blood we found in the vat. he used a pen. There’s a nick on the inferior angle of the mandible.”

“Jesus," Richie mumbles, shaking his said sadly.

“I don't know why he did it," Stan says frankly. “I don't really do why I just do how.

“He did it to give his brother more air. So his twin would survive. That’s why we found them holding each other," Richie wipes at his eyes fiercely, refusing to cry.

“How does that help?”

“When we tell Mr. Criss that one of his sons gave his own life to save his brother, it’ll mean something, kid," Richie places a hand on Stan’s shoulder firmly, then pulls away to pick his suit jacket off the floor. “Just keep searching. I'm going back to my office to make a few calls.”

. . . . .

Bev rips a page from the back of Eddie’s book and scribbles something on it quickly, sticking it in her back pocket once she’s finished.

“Okay. I'm ready.”

“Was that a note to Ben?”

“Yeah,” Bev sighs, looking down in shame. “Just in case whatever you’re gonna do to me sends me into shock. I might die. Upside? Me not breathing doubles your survival time.”

“I'm not interested in surviving that way," Eddie says gently, fingering a pocket knife as he examines Bev’s leg. “What I'm going to do is make a long incision in the fascia to release the pressure inside.”

“How long is a long incision?” Bev asks nervously, before shaking her head. “Wait, you know what? Don’t tell me.”

“It’s best if I do it very fast and without empathy," He hands her his black belt, and gestures for her to put it in her mouth as a gag. “Hang on to something and don’t fight passing out," He says firmly, flicking open the knife. Bev looks away and he goes to cut but hesitates when he sees something stuck in her leg. “Wait…”

Bev spits out the gag. “What is that?”

“Evidence. Of what happened to you," He mutters, sticking it in between the pages of her book. “Let’s worry about it later.”

Bev nods then places the gag back in her mouth, and grips the emergency handles on either side of her. Eddie picks up his knife again, looking at Bev hesitantly before slicing her leg open. Her screams fill the car, even with the gag, and Eddie’s eyes fill with tears, that he quickly blinks away.

Very fast, and with no empathy.

. . . . .

FIVE HOURS  
NINE MINUTES  
THIRTY-FOUR SECONDS

Richie paced back and forth in his office, phone pressed to his ear, the chairman of the Cantilever Group talking in his ear.

“No proof of life from the kidnapper, no ransom," He echoes. “Not even for the boss?”

“It’s his rule," The voice crackles sadly. “No exceptions.”

“Alright, well, thank you anyway. Have a good rest of your night.”

Richie hung up the phone, and sunk into his office chair, burying his head in his hands. The tears came to his eyes quickly and soon he was sobbing, his shoulders shaking violently. Thoughts of Eddie filled his head, only succeeding in making him cry harder.

How could he have let him go twice? The things they had said when they last saw each other the year before were awful, and Richie had let Eddie shut him out without a fight. Now, they’re finally together again, and Richie finally feels like the timing is right, and Eddie is taken by some psychopath and buried underground. Was fate ever going to leave his love life be?

He had spent the whole year thinking about how he was going to make it up to Eddie. He had followed his work and gone to upscale events in hopes the doctor would be there, only to be disappointed or discouraged at every turn. He had stayed in contact with Beverly and asked about Eddie all the time. He had checked in with Stan once a month, asking if Eddie would see him. Richie had always been a believer in love at first sight, but meeting Eddie in that lecture hall had just reaffirmed everything he already knew. 

It couldn’t be a coincidence that The Gravedigger had taken Eddie when he did. They had to be getting close. He was working with a specialized group of squints, goddammit. And he refused to let Eddie, or The Gravedigger, slip out of his fingers again. Fate be damned, he was going to catch the bad guy, and get the guy, because he was Richie fucking Tozier, Special Agent, FBI. And he never loses.

. . . . .

Bev was startled awake by the honking of a horn, her eyes opening to Eddie’s smiling face.

“Thank God, I didn’t kill you," He breathed out, smile wide.

“How long was I unconscious?” Bev asked groggily. She blinked a few more times, now acutely aware of the tiny space she was still sitting in. The pain in her leg had been relieved, but she could feel her back beginning to cramp from her uncomfortable position.

“For a while. How’s your leg?”

“Better. Lots better. What are you doing?

“Hotwiring the phone to the horn so we can send a message.”

“From underground?

“We get radio reception.”

Bev is silent for a moment, considering the situation. “Direct current twelve volt will burn out the circuits in a four-point-two volt cell phone in a microsecond," She says finally. “You'd better jury-rig a resistor.

Eddie looks at her, eyes twinkling. “Smart.

“It might work long enough to send a single burst transmission.”

Eddie nods. “A very short text message. Richie can trace it to a cell phone relay tower.”

“What message should we send? Goodbye? Nice to know ya?”

Eddie chuckles and looks at Bev pointedly. “What are we surrounded by?”

Bev shrugs. “Pain. Despair. A subsoil accumulation of agglutinate aridisols.”

Eddie grins at her. “Dirt.”

“I don’t like the term dirt,” Bev warns.

Eddie picks up a handful of dirt from the seat beside him and dumps it into Bev’s hand. “Tell me something I don’t know.

Bev examines the dirt closely. “Ash, hints of nitrogen and sulfur…” She spits on it, and Eddie cringes, as she continues to look closely at the clump in her hand.

“So where are we?” Eddie asks after a moment, anxious for an answer to their escape.

“We’re in Bituminous Coal Country. Basically, Virginia.”

Eddie deflates. “We need more than that.”

Eddie can see the lightbulb go off in Bev’s head. “The laser- and we need benzophenone.”

“Benzophenone? Some soaps and plastic packaging, sunscreen – we don’t have any sunscreen!”

Bev grins and reaches into her pocket. “I’ve got perfume.”

“Why?” Eddie is bewildered, but Bev waves him off and gestures for him to hand her something.

“Does it matter?” She looks at him. “I need the camera.”

Eddie hands her the camera and shines the laser on the dirt in Bev’s hand. Bev uses the camera to examine the dirt more closely, and after a moment, she looks up sharply, her face elated.

“I know where we are.”

. . . . .

“There’s no negotiating with The Gravedigger," Bill spoke flatly, looking sort of bored. Richie had called him in twenty minutes ago, and now they sat in Richie's office, the air tense.

Richie narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been through this, what, five, six times with this guy?”

“Exactly," Bill nods. “So I know him, and he does not negotiate."

“Oh, What? No chat room action with him?” Richie snaps, and Bill looks surprised at his tone.

“Are you nuts? I hate the son of a bitch.”

“Why? He’s made you rich.”

“Richie!” Bill is indignant. “This guy killed my brother! I’ve seen what he can do to people! You just need to deal with the facts. If you can’t put the ransom together in the time he gave you, your boyfriend is dead. Sorry.”

Richie stands up, slamming his hands down on the table. “You’ve seen what he can do to people, huh? You haven’t seen shit! You milked that story for all it was worth, but we both know what really happened.”

“Richie…” bill’s voice was tired, but there was a fire in Richie’s chest, that had been growing for days, and needed to be released.

“I found his body, Bill! I was the one who found him locked in that toy chest! You didn't have to see what I saw! And I watched my uncle work on this case, until it killed him, too!” Richie's voice was loud, and Bill looked guiltily down at his hands. “Georgie was as much my brother as yours, but I was the only one who really gave a shit about him. all you cared about was your moment in the spotlight. But when I finally had the gall to speak up about it, you told everyone in school that I was crazy! Poor little Richie Tozier, off his meds, and making up stories again!”

“My parents didn’t even pick up the phone, Richie! Somebody had to keep people talking about him! So I put my dysfunction aside, and kept him alive the only way I knew how! Don’t act like you understand my motives.”

“Here’s the deal, alright?” Richie's voice is absolutely venomous, and Bill shrinks back instinctively. “You have a relationship with this guy, what they call symbiotic – you benefit from each other. So know this: that deadline comes around, and Eddie is still underground? I will end you. You understand?” Bill nods. Richie nods and turns away from him.

“Three hours to live. Better hurry.”

. . . . .

“This thing you found in my leg is anodized plastic film and coated metallic tape with dried out adhesive," Bev announces after several minutes of silence. “I think it’s a bumper sticker.”

“You mean like ‘If you can read this, you’re too close’?” Eddie asks, vaguely interested, from the front seat, where he works on hotwiring the phone.

“No, more like a prepaid toll road pass," She pauses, then looks at him indignantly. “Someone ran me down with a car!”

“We knew that already.”

“Yeah, but now we’ve proved it, and I find that I'm really annoyed.”

Eddie rolls his eyes playfully and turns to look at Bev, the phone held tightly in his hand. “Four to six seconds to enter a message and hit speed dial,"

Bev nods. “I’ve figured out a text message using eight key strikes.”

“How’s your text messaging?”

“Thumbs like lightning. I can do it.”

“Okay,” Eddie huffs, handing her the phone. “You ready?

“Yeah.”

Eddie presses on the horn, and Bev begins to type. The phone short circuits after a few moments.

“Did it go?”

“I think so.”

They lock eyes, and Eddie nods in agreement. “Me too.”

. . . . .

“Does it mean anything to anybody?” Richie asks again, pointing fiercely at the screen, where the text message he had just received from Eddie was displayed. The message was confusing, nothing more than a bunch of random numbers, but they had to mean something.

“Six, seven, sixteen, m, one point four,” Stan muttered to themself, scratching at their wrist anxiously. “What the hell?”

“They’re getting low on oxygen,” Mike said with a sympathetic tone.

Ben nods reluctantly. “Hypoxia leads to mental confusion.”

“It’s Bones!” Richie exclaims. “Eddie Kaspbrak? Man of like twenty-seven doctorates in fields you’ve never heard of? It means something.”

“Did you try just dialing the number?” Ben pulls out her phone but lowers it once she met Richie’s exasperated gaze.

“I tried all the dumb guy, normal stuff, okay! That’s why I'm here talking to the brain trust! So, think, Eggheads! Work it!”

“Richie,” Mike snaps quickly. “They’re not cops!”

“We’re running out of time!” Richie wails.

“Minor correction,” Stan interrupts, their eyes locked on the countdown screen. “Doctor Kaspbrak and Doctor Marsh run out of air in five, four, three, two…” Stan turns to look at Richie sadly. “We are out of time.”

. . . . .

Eddie inhales sharply, the air from his spare tire releasing into the car in a rush of relief.

“How much extra time?” Bev asks him, lolling her head to the side.

“A little," Eddie says, out of breath. “There are four extra tires, but we can’t get to them. Is there anything else?”

Bev sighs, defeated. “If the ransom was paid, we’d be out by now. Why prolong the inevitable?”

Eddie shrugs. “Richie will find us.”

“You have a lot of faith in him," Bev notes, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Eddie laughs. “Faith is an irrational belief in something logically impossible. I’ve seen what Richie can do. My trust in him is not faith.”

“No offense,” Bev takes his hand. “And I'm not just saying this because you filleted me with a knife, but we are out of air. We don’t know if our message got out, much less if anyone understood it, and we are buried underground. What you have is faith, baby," She cringes. “Sorry. The baby thing is a reflex.

Eddie blushes and averts his eyes. “We shouldn’t talk right now,” He says finally. “To conserve air.”

Bev rolls her eyes. “I need the camera batteries and the preservative powder from your kit.”

“Soda ash and lithium?” Eddie looks up, surprised. “You’re going to make a carbon dioxide scrubber?”

Bev just grins. “If you can perform surgery out of thin air, then I can pull a little thin air out of thin air.”

. . . . .

“Okay, Stan figured out what stun gun The Gravedigger uses and how it’s modified. Thanks to ben, we know that The Gravedigger has a customized aluminum casing in the back of his vehicle…” Bill rattles off all the progress he made, and Richie rolls his eyes. Bill had just done a news segment where he had pleaded with The Gravedigger to give Richie and the team more time, but to no avail, and Richie found that he was still rather irritated at the man.

“I got about a hundred agents working that angle. What does this mean, right here?” He taps on the computer monitor forcefully. “What does that mean?

“You’re forgetting something!” Stan interjects. “Bev and Eddie are out of air!”

“Great! you wanna give up, huh?” Richie turns on Stan, taking a menacing step towards them. “This is Bones we’re talking about and Beverly! You really think they didn’t find a way to extend their air supply? Hell, they found a way to send us a message to ask us for help!” He hits the monitor again. “And you want to give up because of math?”

. . . . .

Bev scrapes the lithium from inside the battery into the ashtray and smiles widely. “Soda ash and lithium react high concentrations of carbon dioxide,” She pours water into the tray and grins when her concoction begins to foam. “And produce oxygen.”

She and Eddie laugh in relief, but Eddie sobers up rather quickly and crawls back to the front seat. “That gives us just long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

“My next idea, which will kill us," Bev looks at him worriedly. “Airbags.”

“They aren’t actually bags of air!” Bev exclaims, absolutely shocked.

Eddie shakes his head. “ I'm not looking to extend our survival underground. I'm looking to blow our way out of here.”

“Using the explosives from the airbags?” Bev’s voice shakes, and Eddie nods silently. “That could definitely kill us.”

“So will doing nothing," Eddie says, almost mournfully, turning his back to her to work on the airbags.

Bev looks at him for a moment, then rips a page out of the book at her side, extending it to Eddie with a pen. “Anyone you wanna say goodbye to?"

Eddie looks hesitantly at the paper, then gently takes it from her hand. Uncapping the pen, he begins to write.

. . . . .

Richie-

You are a confusing man. You are irrational and impulsive, superstitious and exasperating. You believe in ghosts and angels, and maybe even Santa Claus, and because of you, I've started to see the universe differently. How is it possible that simply looking into your fine face gives me so much joy? Why does it make me so happy that every time I try to sneak a peek at you, you're already looking at me? Like you, it makes no sense, and like you, it feels right. 

That night last year still weighs heavily on me, in the metaphorical sense. There are a lot of things I regret. I regret punching that judge, I regret ruining that interview with Betty Ripsom’s mother, and, mostly, I regret pushing you away.

My father died when I was three, from some sort of sickness. My mother took this as a sign and began to put me on various medications that did nothing- placebos. Because of this, I have a habit of pushing away people that are close to me, in fear that they will betray my trust the same way my mother did so long ago. My team at the Jeffersonian- they’re my family now, and it took them a long time to be let in.

But, with you, it was so easy. You know how to push my buttons, and you irritate the hell out of me, but I never felt more at home than I did working on the Ripsom case with you. That scares me. You got me to open up in ways that no one else could. I spent months chasing the feelings that you gave me, finding no luck. You are the only one who has ever managed to make me feel so warm. Within just two days of being back in my life, my feelings are clear.

If I ever get out of here, I will find a time and a place to tell you that you make my life messy, and confusing, and unfocused, and irrational, and wonderful. I will find a time to tell you I love you. 

Eddie

. . . . .

“It’s not a numerical alphabetical code or an equation," Stan declares.

“Not GPS coordinates or indications of topography, either," Ben shouts from her office, sounding defeated.

“Great!” Richie’s patience is wearing thin, and he’s pretty sure if this goes on for much longer, he’s going to have to steal some of Stan’s Xanax. “Then what is it?”

“Can I make a suggestion?” Mike steps up timidly. “You guys are brilliant, but you won’t make intuitive leaps. This is a message from one of them to one of us. Specific. Focused. Who was it meant to get to?”

“Easy. Eddie’s cell to mine, right? The message was for me. We have a… an understanding. we work together.”

“We all work together,” Stan says pointedly. “He might be in love with you, but he’s my best friend. And Beverly-“

“That’s it!” Ben emerges from his office, looking excited, walking right past Richie, who looked gobsmacked upon hearing Stan's words. “We should assume the message is from Bev, not from Eddie!”

“Why?” Richie looks around, snapping out of his thoughts, confused at the realization on everyone’s face.

“Because they’re buried alive," Mike laughs a little at his own obliviousness.

Ben smiles and finishes his thought. “And Bev is all about dirt.”

“Okay, great! the message is about dirt!” Richie throws his hands up mockingly. “But who’s it to?”

“Ben," Stan blurts. “Beverly is all about dirt and Ben.”

“But it’s numbers, Stan," Ben’s face softens a little, but the worry is still evident in her eyes. “It’s for you. Bev would have written me a line of poetry or something.”

Stan nods and lowers their head, chewing on their lip nervously. Then, their head jerks up, and he’s at the nearest computer, pulling up a map. “Six, seven, sixteen; carbon, nitrogen, and sulfur on the periodic table of elements. They are buried in coal-rich soil.”

“You gotta narrow it down, stan," Ben encourages them, placing a hand on their shoulder, watching their movements anxiously. Richie takes a step towards the screen as well, anticipation filling his gut.

“Mineral components of coal are all the same. It’s the organic components that provide a unique fingerprint. They're called mascerals, and they fluoresce at different levels. A reflectance of one point four is quite rare– suggesting a high concentration of inertinite…” They type away and Richie looks to Ben nervously.

“Stan, tell me what that means.”

“It means they know where they are.” Ben grins.

“Stan?” Richie asks again, watching as he pinpoints a spot on the map, and zooms in on a location. Stan turns to meet his eyes.

“I know where they are.”

. . . . . 

“Could this really work?” Bev questions doubtfully, causing Eddie to hesitate.

“I'm not really an explosives expert,” He says after a beat. “But the dash might shape the charge enough to blow out the windshield. If we’re less than four feet beneath the surface, this charge could blow us to freedom.”

“And if we’re buried more than four feet deep?”

Eddie exhales. “Then the concussion will turn our brains into jelly.”

“Well, then we can run for Congress, so it’s a win-win.”

Eddie smiles sadly at her, eyes welling up. “We should get as far away from the explosion as possible.

“I already am," Bev smiles back at him, her eyes getting watery as well. “Care to join me?” she swallows, extending her hand to Eddie, her eyes telling him that she is as terrified as him. He takes it gently and crawls into the backseat beside her. She offers her hand for a handshake. “Doctor Kaspbrak, it’s been a privilege.”

Eddie pulls her into a tight hug, gripping her hand tightly, watching intently as, together, they slowly connect the wires to set off the airbags.

. . . . .

He can see the dirt fly up, barely noticeable, but enough to tell him what he needs to know. And then he’s running, slipping and sliding down the edge of the hill he’s on, racing toward the small hill of dirt, pushed aside by some sort of explosion.

He digs until he sees a hand, with an all too familiar watch wrapped around the wrist. He sighs in relief, digs, and pulls. Then, Eddie is crawling out from underneath the sand and dirt, and throwing himself into Richie's arms.

“Richie!” Eddie sobs, winding his arms tightly around his savior's neck. His face is buried in Richie's shoulder and they’re both crying, their jackets wet and covered with dirt.

“I’ve got you,” is all he can think to say, as he rocks Eddie back and forth. “I’ve got you.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Eddie sniffles, his face still buried in Richie's shoulder, making it a little hard to hear. But Richie gets the message, loud and clear.

“You got away from me once,” He proclaims, tightening his hold on Eddie. “I wasn’t going to let you do it again.”

Richie continues to hold him, watching Ben pull Bev out from the ground and press a kiss to her forehead, and Stan pump his fist in the air and pull Mike into a searing kiss. He finds himself smiling, a feeling of gratefulness washing over him, as he pulls Eddie closer.

“Let’s get you home, spaghetti.”

. . . . .

“I went to visit you at the hospital.” A voice shakes his concentration, and he looks up to meet Richie's eyes. He’s changed out of his suit, opting instead for a red flannel and dark jeans. He’s holding a stuffed dog, and Eddie’s brow furrows. “I brought you this.”

Eddie shakes his head and averts his gaze back to the bones laid out on the before him. “They, uh, they let me go home.”

Richie laughs. “No, they didn’t. You left without being discharged. You stole crutches – which I had to pay for.”

“They packed me - pumped me full of antibiotics - stitched me up and gave me painkillers, so I'm… good to go.” Eddie says breezily, and Richie sighs, moving to stand across from Eddie.

“Could you please look at me?” Eddie shakily meets his gaze, and Richie is staring at him intensely. “You were buried alive, and almost died. You performed surgery on one of your best friends. You were pumped full of drugs. You really should be lying down.”

Tears flood Eddie’s vision, and he collapses in on himself, allowing a sob to escape him. “He’s out there, Richie. He buries people alive. I have to catch him.” he pleads, and Richie moves to the other side of the table to wrap his arm around him. He supports him in standing and Eddie looks around the lab frantically, avoiding Richie's eyes. “If I can figure out the exact alloy of aluminum, then maybe I could – maybe we could? Plus, the bit of bumper sticker that was in Bev’s leg! I mean, it’s not my specialty, but I could figure it out, I'm sure.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Richie cups his face and turns his head to make Eddie keep eye contact. “We’re gonna catch him, okay. I promise you. We’re gonna start tomorrow. All of us, together.”

Eddie shakes his head and pulls away from Richie to bury his head in hands, sitting on the steps of the lab platform. “I can’t sleep, Richie.”

“I thought that they gave you something for that?” Richie asks, sitting beside him.

“No, I mean,” Eddie looks up, and Richie can see the exhaustion and the fear in his features. “I’m afraid. That when I close my eyes when I open them, I’m going to be back in that car. buried. running out of air.”

“Okay,” Richie nods, considering the confession. “Then you should come home with me.”

Eddie looks up sharply. “What?”

Richie shrugs and offers Eddie a warm smile. “Then, when you open your eyes, I’ll be there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Eddie exhales loudly, then smiles at Richie softly. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a big deal, Eds.” Richie tries to deflect, but Eddie shakes his head.

“Not just for letting me stay over.” Eddie reaches for Richie's hand, intertwining their fingers on his lap. “For finding me. For saving me.”

“Someone has to,” Richie whispers, his face dangerously close to Eddie's now. His eyes flit to Eddie's lips, and then Eddie is surging forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I knew you wouldn’t give up.” He whispers, his voice cracking as he pulls away.

Richie leans in to kiss him again. “I knew you wouldn’t give up.”

They stay like that for what seems like forever, hands joined, lips locked, until Richie finally pulls away, and grabs Eddie's hand to pull him to his feet. 

“You know,” Eddie looks at Richie somberly, trying to bite back a smile, before following him out of the lab. Richie grins at him. “I’m good for that crutch money.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @bxrchies and @carolynkeenes mwah


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